The village was postcard pretty, with its whitewashed cottages around the cove. Not for this village the garish colours of Ballyfitzpatrick – here there must have been rules, but the effect was delightful. Even in January it looked like the perfect holiday destination. The cottages were no longer thatched and the boats in the harbour were all modern but there was a man sitting mending nets in the sunshine.

‘They pay him to look picturesque,’ said Monica.

‘He does his job very well,’ said Laura. ‘He looks perfect.’

‘And if we can’t find Cove Road, we can ask him, but I think it’s all Cove Road, so it’s just a case of finding the right house.’

It was surprisingly straightforward, only, on the doorstep, the ridiculousness of the whole thing hit Laura and she got the giggles. ‘Oh God, Monica, I’m so sorry, I can’t do this. You’ll have to do it on your own.’ She could hardly speak. ‘It’s just so silly! We’ve ridden bikes, for goodness’ sake, to meet a man who may not even live here. We’re grown women, not thirteen-year-olds!’ She went off into another fit of laughter and crossed her legs, just in case.

‘Really, Laura, I thought you were the sensible one of us! I’m flighty, you’re sensible: those are our roles. We must stick to them.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Laura spluttered. ‘I just can’t knock on the door and say, “Can Seamus come out to play?” I just can’t! And I can’t stand behind you while you do it.’ She swallowed, took a deep breath and got a grip at last. ‘Tell you what, we’ll get the bikes out of sight at least. I’ll look after them, and you can do this on your own.’

‘Don’t be silly!’ Monica was indignant. ‘How sad will that make me look?’

‘Not much sadder than if we’re both here, me giggling and both of us holding bicycles as if we’re kids from school. What are you going to say anyway? “We were passing so we thought we’d drop by?”’

Monica humphed in irritation. ‘Well, why not? It’s true!’

‘No it’s not. We cycled bloody miles, we were not “just passing”.’ She sniffed, found a bit of old tissue, blew her nose and then said, ‘But I’ve stopped giggling now, so go ahead, look a fool. I’ll look one with you.’

‘Thanks, Laura, you’re a good girl.’

Monica lifted the knocker and banged hard. There was no answer. ‘Well, now what do we do?’ she said after a minute and another knock.

‘Write your mobile number on a bit of paper and post it through the letterbox. Although you may have to write a short essay reminding him who you are,’ said Laura.